


there are only sirens

by Teroe



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Road Trip, F/F, don't let the title fool you, its mostly fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-25
Updated: 2016-10-31
Packaged: 2018-05-28 21:57:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,555
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6347194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teroe/pseuds/Teroe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke drags Lexa and Anya on a road trip in the name of art and soul searching, but it feels oddly like running away.</p><p>or </p><p>a little less running, a little more find me.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Kansas

**Author's Note:**

> another prompt that got away. there might be more, but for now consider it a oneshot that may or may not get more oneshots down the line. All depends, and as always, come yell at me about clexa and subsequently anya. i've got more feels than i know what to do with.

The rain falls like an onslaught of war, collecting in rivers on the side of roads, pooling in fields that stretch for miles. It leaves the earth drowning, saturated to the point where it’s begging for respite, gurgling beneath rising waters.

For one, it’s certainly not driving weather. Halfway across the Kansas interstate with nothing but road and weeds and what was once dirt turning rapidly into mush, it becomes apparent to you what exactly you had driven into, but by then it’s too late. So you do the only thing you can. You pull over.

Clarke is the first to take notice, slouched as she is in the passenger seat with her worn sneakers propped on the dash. Her hair has been a mess ever since Kentucky and when she looks up from the camera in her lap she has to brush it aside to look at you, the blonde mass of curls settling over her opposite shoulder. Her brows knit at the sudden cut of the ignition, questioning in their very nature, and the sound of pelting rain fills the silence.

It’s Anya who speaks first. “Why the fuck did we stop?”

Her voice is tired, and you know without looking that she’s still stretched across the backseat of the car half asleep, an arm draped over her face. To be fair, she had single handedly driven them through Missouri on nothing but one cup of coffee.

“Reasons,” you say, and you know the purposefully vague response does its job when she kicks the back of your seat. Visibility in the downpour is horrendous at best and you don’t need the radio to tell you it’s bad, but you change the station anyway, settling on a news broadcast. You hear the words “torrential” and “dangerous” and come to the conclusion that you made the right choice.

“So we’re stuck?” Clarke asks, taking her feet off the dashboard.

“For the time being.”

Anya groans, the leather squeaking as she rolls, and you watch Clarke turn in her seat to look back at her. She shares a quick glance with you, mouth quirked, and you turn away before she has a chance to suck you into her schemes.

All you hear is the click of Clarke’s Nikon and then the telltale silence that follows. It lasts all of two seconds before Clarke’s husky laugh fills your ears as Anya lunges forward between your seats, trying to snatch her. Still drowsy with sleep, Anya’s hand closes on air and Clarke manages to scramble away, pushing herself back against the door and out of reach.

“Give me the damn camera,” Anya grits through her teeth, sun-bleached hair sticking this way and that, and yeah maybe you’re all a little worse for wear.

“It’s my camera,” Clarke retorts, and you can’t stop the smile tugging at your lips.

Anya shoots you a glare, and it’s like she knew without having to look. “Don’t encourage her.” She doesn’t move from where she’s settled between the seats, half over the console and onto the passenger side, unwilling--or perhaps too stubborn--to give Clarke an inch.

You look away, fingers running along the steering wheel, the rain thundering against the windows, and the ache in your cheeks from smiling is the best kind of pain.

“I’m not moving,” Anya says after a moment of silence.

Clarke just nods. “Good.”

* * *

 

You find out there’s no service on the Kansas interstate. Well, Clarke finds out and she lets the both of you know. You have the seat pushed back, body and face slightly turned so you don’t miss the cold war playing out before you, but the last thirty or so minutes has boiled down to this: a sort of mutual silence, and the least you could do is get comfortable. Clarke remains tucked back against the door and glove compartment, and Anya is still hunched over, head on her arms, watching Clarke with drooping eyes. You figure it could be worse.

“It’s probably just the storm,” you say. What you can see of the outside is the gray that surrounds Clarke through the window behind her, rolling clouds and sheets of rain, but her blonde hair catches what little light there is on this rainy afternoon. You’re sure it's what the sun would look like if you could see it.

A snort rises from between the seats and you look away from Clarke to find Anya watching you, a glint sparkling in her eyes from where they peek over the cover of her arms, and there’s only one thing it could mean. You quirk a smile and Anya rolls her eyes.

With the windows closed and the rain hitting the glass like constant static, the inside of your small coupe is a universe all itself. The air is muggy and you can feel the sweat begin to collect in the dip of your back, the underside of your neck. It feels oddly like being boneless, the leather sticking to your skin, and you want nothing more than to roll down the window and let the rain in, but you don’t.

You watch Clarke run a hand through her hair, strands spilling between her fingers and the gold highlights the baby blue of her nails. You remember her painting them back in Virginia before this all started, with her settled between your legs back to front, the sheets a messy tangle around your legs and the small container of nail polish balanced on your thigh. She smelled like oil paints and turpentine where your nose was pressed into the back of her shoulder, mixing in with the smell of veggie omelettes as Anya worked her way through the kitchen. It’s too far away to see now, but you have a feeling they’re starting to chip.

Her hand trails around her ear, tucking back loose curls, and then reaches for the camera near her knee. She holds it for a moment, weighs it in her hands, turning it this way and that before lifting it to her face. Her right eye closes and this little smirk tilts her lips. There’s a click followed by silence, and then muttered curses and laughs.

* * *

 

You’re back on the road by four and the windows are open. The sun is golden, making up for lost time, glinting off the rainwater that had collected in ditches on the side of the road. Everything is waterlogged and gasping for air, the three of you included. Clarke’s arm dangles outside of the passenger window, head relaxed back against the seat as the wind whips her hair. Her feet are up on the dash again and the camera sits docile in her lap. In the backseat, Anya watches the road go by, chin in her hand, and when she catches your stare in the rearview mirror she rolls her eyes.

Majority rules that you stop at the first motel you come by and it's forty minutes before the neon sign first comes into view. It’s glaring red, boasting twenty-four-hour accommodations, poolside rooms, and wifi. You’re only positive about two out of three, but you pull up into the temp parking in front of the office either way, slipping your feet back into your sandals once you shift the car into park.

You nudge the car door open with your shoulder, pushing the sunglasses onto the top of your head as you pull yourself from the driver’s seat. “Be back in a sec,” you say, and Clarke and Anya’s muttered responses follow softly after you.

There’s just one man at the desk, nose hidden behind yesterday’s paper. He’s just about as interested in small talk as you and it’s a matter of moments before you’re out the door and slipping back into the diver’s seat, keycard in hand.

It’s a small room, just two beds, a bureau with a tv, and a fridge. You expect the bathroom’s no bigger than your car, but the outdoor pool is visible through the sliding doors, the curtains pushed back, and it looks as refreshing as it no doubt feels.

“Raven called.”

Clarke’s posture stiffens, her movements halted as she stuffs the few perishable provisions from the cooler and into the fridge. You place the bag and sunglasses on the table by the bureau and watch.

Anya stands just a few feet in front of the door, hip cocked, phone in one hand and the other stuffed into the pocket of her shorts. “Do you want me to call her back?”

“No.” Clarke’s reply is quick and succinct, punctuated by the slight ‘fwoosh’ of the fridge as it closes and suctions shut. She takes the bag from the table, not looking at you, and disappears into the bathroom. She comes out a few minutes later in nothing but one of Anya’s large t-shirts and what you’re sure is just underwear, tossing the bag onto the bed. “I’m gonna be by the pool.”

You and Anya watch her go, the wind rushing in when Clarke slides the door open and steps outside. It's a little warm even in spite of the recent storm, humid with the hint of fading rain, but for now it’s past, and there’s a certain comfort in it.

Anya is the first  to follow, unhitching the watch from her wrist and then tossing it and her phone onto the bed. Her steps are purposeful, strong and full of attitude, and you’re not too far behind. But not before you grab the camera Clarke left behind on the table.

You step outside just as Anya tugs off her shirt, tossing it onto one of the plastic lounge chairs that surround the pool. She has a bra on at least, and your lips quirk. The muscles on her back flex as she darts off, and the heavy patter of her feet, splashing through puddles leftover from the rain, finally draws Clarke’s attention away from the edge of the pool. She turns, hair whipping around, eyes wide, hands out (as if that would stop anything), and her voice a pitch high as she squeaks out, “Don’t even--”

But it's too late. Anya envelopes her, arms circling tight, and tugs her head-long into the pool. The resulting splash reaches out onto the tile, gathering into the notches between stones and Clarke comes up sputtering before it has the chance to settle. Her first breaths are gasps, hair clinging to her neck and shoulders, in her eyes, but she holds on to Anya tightly. Her arms are hooked around Anya’s neck, their faces close, and you can’t help but raise the camera to your eye. It's off-center, mostly water and glints of sun, but there’s soaked skin and clothes, hands soft on shoulders, and water dripping from chins and parted lips.

The camera lowers slowly and the warmth in your chest spreads. Clarke pushes Anya away a second later, but the smile has already started to grow on her lips. Before long you’re placing Clarke’s camera on Anya’s discarded shirt, your fingers grasping the hem of your own and peeling it off in record time, your sandals left one after the other on your way to the pool.

The water is cool, and it surrounds you.

* * *

 

The chlorine clings to you even after your shower, curls your hair into spirals you don’t bother brushing out. It drip dries, the last of the excess water soaking into the back of your shirt. You focus on your phone, anya sprawled in your peripheral a few feet away at the end of the bed, somewhere between content and too tired too function, but when the rush of water stops, the bathroom suddenly quiet, you both glance up.

The room is a lazy yellow, the overhead light subdued and distant, and Clarke pads out, sluggish, skin a healthy flush and toweling her hair. She meanders, dropping her towel at the edge of the other, unused bed, fingers combing through her damp hair in lieu of the brush you don’t have.

Anya pulls herself from the bed then, shuffling through her bag and taking out a change of clothes, and in the small space of the motel room, Clarke works around her with expertise. There’s a hand at the small of Anya’s back, lingers for as long as Clarke is still in reach, and when it's gone, Anya glances over her shoulder to watch her, a smile tugging at her lips

It reminds you of home, and by the time Clarke makes it over to the bed, you’ve already made room, scooting forward until there’s just enough space between you and the headboard. She slips in behind you, brushing your hair over your right shoulder before folding her arms across your stomach and pulling you back against her. She’s soft and warm and pliant, and you feel her rest the side of her face between your shoulder-blades.

When you take her hand, sliding your fingers between hers and pulling it away, she doesn’t complain. You reach for the bag at the foot of the bed, searching with your free hand through the pockets for the small bottles of nail polish you know she brought. “What color?”

You feel her shrug. “Whatever you want.”

By chance, the one you pick out is yellow, and you find it oddly fitting. You let go of her hand to unscrew the cap before taking it again and laying her left palm flat against yours. Your fingers hold gently, fold around her hand to keep her still so you can trail the brush evenly over her nails. The blue is still there in pieces, like shattered bits of sky that remained buried there out of spite.

Clarke shifts, presses her mouth to the patch of skin on your shoulder where your shirt slips down and your movements still. The brush halts mid stroke and you’re left staring at your hands interlocked, positive that all the love you feel isn’t measurable in miles, but star to star and the seeming nothingness between.

You hear a click, and the lips on your shoulder spread into a smile.

* * *

 

The bed isn’t meant for all three of you, but you make it fit.


	2. Colorado

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heads up that this is gonna be five parts, but its being written in between other projects, so it'll take a bit to finish if i do at all, but in the meantime i hope you enjoy

Clarke decides to make a quick stop in Colorado Springs for some art supplies. It’s the closest, Clarke tells you, and so does her phone which sits in your lap, google maps idle under your thumb. It's your turn to ride shotgun, and after the last twenty-four hours, you’re more than content with the lack of agency it presents you. You stretch out in the passenger seat and try to ease the lingering ache from sleeping scrunched up on a too small bed. It works as well as you expect.

The window is down, and the wind carries with it the scent of fading rain, clouds rolling soft on the horizon. It's certainly a contrast compared to yesterday, and the lazy pace Clarke sets means it takes time. There’s two more hours of Kansas before you’re even across the Colorado border and then another two and a half before you see a building larger than a two story farm house.

Et Iris, an art supply store situated on the outskirts, is just what she’s looking for. Old wood beams stretch across high ceilings. Fans putter silently. There’s bundles of half-off markers and hundreds of assorted color pencils collected in clearance plastic bins, but you lose Clarke to the charcoal and graphite section the second you’re through the door.

You leave her be, the watercolor tubes drawing your attention and you move from the door to browse. It’s not your expertise, never has been and probably never will be, but it draws your interest by proxy. Your memories are splattered bursts of color. Of red dragged across cheeks, gold smeared on the inside of wrists, fingers black and blue and you can’t help but notice the difference. Something is missing, and maybe it's that little bit of magic that you’d swear seeps from Clarke’s hands.You reach out for the closest one, violet, and pop open the top to see if it's telling you the truth and it is, deep and rich and made of galaxies.

Anya roams over before long, a swagger in her step. She leans into you just barely, more of a nudge than anything else, and sighs. “We’re never going to leave are we?”

Shrugging, you replace the cap to the tube of paint, putting it back and taking another. “You know places like these calm her down.” Over the shelves you can see Clarke has wandered over to the brushes, running her thumb over the bristles, testing the give. “Let her enjoy it. There’s no rush.”

Anya exhales through her nose, a short puff of air, and stuffs her hands into her pockets. You know what that means. Or at least you have a feeling, and the words that come next you should expect. “You’re too soft with her sometimes.”

There’s a gentle curl to Anya’s lips as she says it, the slightest of teases, but you lift your shoulders a little bit, tilt your head back a smidge. “Isn’t it something she deserves? After everything?”

The curl stretches into a smirk. “That’s not what I meant.” Anya’s eyes leave yours and finds Clarke over in her own world. “I’m just saying right now what she needs is a good shove in the right direction.”

You put the paint tube back without looking. “The last time you shoved her it was into a pool and she nearly slapped you for it.”

“And I’d consider that a success,” Anya says, but she’s smiling now and it's contagious.

As if on cue, Clarke looks over at the both of you, hands filled with packages of charcoal, tubes of paint, and brushes of various sizes. There is a subtle lift to her brow, apprehension in the look in her eyes at the sight of the two of you side by side with matching grins. She gives a little shake of her head and mouths, “Don’t.”

Your first instinct is to deny involvement--to whatever it is Clarke thinks you’re scheming--and apparently it’s also Anya’s. She points an accusatory finger at you (doesn’t even bother trying to hide it) and Clarke huffs, lips pursed.

Anya laughs softly beside you, low in her throat and before you can register it she presses a quick kiss to your temple before wandering off again.

It’s some ten minutes later when Clarke dumps the mix of charcoal, brushes, and paints onto the counter to be scanned, but Anya bumps her out of the way with her hip before she even has the chance to take the money from her wallet.

“Anya--” Clarke admonishes, trying to squeeze her way back in, her hand reaching around the body in front of her. “Anya, I swear to god.”  But Anya is nothing if not steadfast, single-handedly managing to fish out her card from her back pocket while simultaneously blocking Clarke from the register.

The poor boy behind counter looks at you, a silent plea for help as if you held any sway in the matter in first place. You’re more than content to watch it play out anyway, and the brief struggle ends with Clarke’s forehead pressed to the middle of Anya’s back, petulant arms clasped loosely around Anya’s waist as she scribbles her signature on the slip and then slides it over to the cashier. Her free hand never leaves Clarke’s, fingers gentle and trailing back and forth over Clarke’s skin.

“All set on the receipt,” Anya says, pocketing her card and taking the bag from the counter. It’s a second before Clarke lets go and not without prompting, unhooking her arms and picking her head up from she had rested it against Anya’s back.

Clarke takes the bag with a muttered thanks and leads the three of you out of the store a few feet ahead, Anya picking up the rear. You can’t help glancing back, catching Anya’s eyes.

A hand shoves your shoulder, forcing you forward and back out into the Colorado sun. “Shut up and walk, heart eyes.”

* * *

 

A sort-of silence settles long before Clarke finds her way back to the I-25. Your all sated, bellies full after a late lunch at a diner, and the radio drones, mixed in with the muffled sound of the videos Anya watches on her phone in the backseat. You watch the city slowly sink, the ground coming up to swallow buildings and concrete until there’s nothing but earth and far off mountains.

You get lost in the warm blues and cold greens, in the blur of yellows when your eyes lose focus and that odd sort of brown that occurs when it all mixes together. Clarke’s profile out of the corner of your eye is the only static point of reference and you glance her way every so often to watch her amidst all the moving parts. It relieves a bit of the ache at the forefront of your brain, just behind your eyes as your contacts start to act up, and it’s grounding in the most simplest of ways.

Clarke watches the road with tired obligation, hands at five and seven until even that becomes too much effort and her left hand lets go. She props her elbow on the little jut of the door, head sinking into her palm the same time a deep sigh makes its way out her nose. You see the sky in her eyes, cloudy and torn, and you start to reach across the space between before you think better of it. Clarke’s space is her own, now more than ever.

The I-25 is long and it's only just begun. The plan is to get to Albuquerque before ten, rest and recoup, and then be off to spend the rest of the next day enjoying the view from the Grand Canyon. And you realize that’s not going to happen the second Clarke pulls over.

Green numbers on the dashboard tell you it's only ten minutes past the half hour, the four o’clock sun bright when not spotted by clouds, and you can feel the rush of cars as they pass you by, but purpose laces through Clarke’s movements. It's in the decisive twist of her wrist as she tugs the keys from the ignition.

She’s out the door seconds later and you pull yourself up from your slouch to watch her through the window. The wind tugs at her loose button up as she makes her way across the highway and you know she won’t turn back, so you reach in the back for the bag of art supplies and follow, Anya watching you curiously.

Clarke walks at her own pace and you catch up quickly, settle in beside her once the highway is behind you. You don’t know if she knows where she’s going, but you understand the need, and after everything sometimes that’s enough.

She takes the bag from your hands and you let her, steps measured and you match. A set of train tracks cuts through the dirt and you get this odd feeling in your chest as you step over them,  glancing both ways despite the uselessness of the action. There’s nothing but the wind and space and a few lone trees and yet underneath it all you can hear it; the gurgling of rushing water. And now that you’re looking you can see it, too.

Some of the rain you saw in Kansas must have traveled west and what was once a dried up creek rushes, but it doesn’t overflow, and you both stand on the patch of the sand bank that’s left over.

“How did you know?”

Clarke’s head dips, hair falling in her face, but she nudges into you. “Google maps.”

She stands there another moment before sinking down in the sand and you join her without prompting.

“I’m sorry,” she says, looking out and across, the muddy waters swollen just a few meters from your feet. “I just. Sometimes I--”

“Don’t be.” The words are immediate and you try to catch her eyes. “You do what you need to.”

She looks at you, moisture prickling around the edges of her eyes, cheeks flushed. Clarke nods, these short little bobs and it looks like she’s trying to convince herself, mouth pressed into a thin line. You don’t stop yourself this time, your fingers curling around her hand, pulling it from the sand as your thumb brushes lazily back and forth across her knuckles.

“Gross.”

Anya edges into the corner of your vision, and you turn just in time to see her bend to press a kiss to the top of Clarke’s head, the blanket you keep in the trunk tucked into the crook of her left arm. She straightens after a second and gives the blanket a hearty shake, leftover bits of grass and twigs flying off in different directions. She spreads out the blanket over the ground and flops down once it settles, spread eagle, patting the space next to her expectantly.

“Come on, I don’t want you two tracking sand into my car.”

Clarke breathes out (shaky and you know she's trying to reign it all in again) and rolls her eyes, sharing a look with you, before crawling over and propping herself against Anya’s side, bringing the sand and the bag with her as she goes. You follow after her, sinking down so that your head rests on Clarke’s thigh, and you breathe.

Out in the open, the wind makes your eyes feel dry and you rub them, but that only makes it worse. Tiny particles of sand crinkle against your cheeks and you huff softly, eyes still closed because you know how it’ll feel if you open them. You drop your arms, force them still folded over your stomach, and then clarke’s hands brush your shoulder and you relax.

“Do you mind?” Her fingers skim over your left arm, up over your shoulder, stopping at the loose strap of your tank and then back down again.

There’s no need to think. “All yours.”

The bag rustles and you focus on the light breeze that drifts over your face--on Clarke’s hand trailing over your skin, wiping away the sand still stubbornly clinging to your arm. It's a matter of seconds before that changes to stiff bristles and the almost cold moisture of paint.

Clarke always asks you why you choose to keep your left arm bare, and it's this right here. This feeling--this intimacy it ignites, and you think Clarke knows. You know Anya does, because the sigh she exhales, loud and exasperated and causing Clarke to shift with the intake, makes this small laugh trickle from Clarke’s lips. The sound alights the butterflies in your stomach and you take a peek despite the slight sting to your eyes.

The lines of Clarke’s face are stern in concentration, hair stubbornly falling in her face in spite of her efforts to tuck it behind her ear. She catches you staring, blue eyes flicking to yours and then away, and your mouth tilts to match Clarke’s tiny smile.

* * *

 

When you make your way to the car it's dark and you’re sun-soaked and sleepy, the paint over your left arm a second skin. Footsteps scuff the ground, drag lazily across dried grass and dirt, and in the pale light of night the dust that rises from your feet looks like ghosts.

Clarke walks close, fingers threaded loosely through yours and every third step or so your shoulders bump against one another. Anya picks up the rear, quiet. Clarke checks on her and she turns back to the front trying to hide a smile.

The car is still warm by the time you slip back into the passenger seat, so much that you can feel it when you breathe, thick and heavy in your throat. But the car rumbles to a start not seconds later and the air that filters in the moment the windows roll down is just what you need.

Clarke pulls the car back onto the highway, turn signal clicking lazily under the sound of the wind that rushes into the car. She looks ahead, watching the road, and there is a subtle difference compared to earlier. Her skin is soft and blue in the low light, disrupted by the occasional glow from a streetlamp passing over her face, and when she wriggles her hand into yours you hold it tightly.


	3. New Mexico

The warmth of New Mexico sinks in deep. It rushes in early like the tide, dry and heavy, and stays there long into the afternoon. Your skin prickles, hot to the touch, the faulty air conditioning basically nonexistent, and it makes finding a comfortable spot in the backseat nearly impossible. The leather warms up as soon as you settle, peeling off your skin when you move, and you’re sure it's the worst.

Everything is blurry, the inside of the car a mix of tan and gray, and you’re kind of left staring dazedly up at the roof of the car more than a little lost. Your eyes no longer hurt at least, but your glasses are tucked somewhere amidst the collection of bags in the trunk. It makes surrender an inevitability, so after a moment you close your eyes and exhale.

Sleep comes in spurts, however. You pride yourself on being able to sleep anywhere, anytime much to Clarke’s jealously, but there are always exceptions. The rumble of the car, the heat, and the soft sounds that reach the backseat in murmurs and broken conversations holds you by a thread.

You give up permanently when Clarke reads the ‘welcome to Albuquerque’ sign and you open your eyes to stare at the blonde mass in the passenger seat. Her hair shines, glinting in the sun, and Anya’s trademark slouch is decipherable even in the haziness. She shifts slightly, just enough to flick the turn signal on and switch lanes.

“How much longer?”

The silence reigns for a moment before Clarke responds. “Another six or so hours.”

You pull yourself up and anything not a foot from your face is a hodgepodge of shapes, but you squint anyway, trying to make sense of the front seats.

Anya groans, tilting her head, and you hear a crack. “We’re gonna need some gas.”

“There’s one off the next exit,” Clarke points out. You hear the muted sounds of her phone as she types.

The car veers right and your body shifts with the momentum, shoulder bumping against the door. Things pass by in shapes, but you can tell you’ve left the highway as the car slows down to a stop, the turn signal clicking dully on and off. Anya turns left.

It's about ten minutes and some mutterings about bad directions in the front seat until you pull into the station. The smell of gasoline is thick, made worse by the heat, and you thunk your head lightly against the windowpane. The sound catches Clarke’s attention and she turns to look at you as Anya pushes her way out of the car.

“We should have gotten the air conditioner fixed,” you say.

Clarke turns back to the front and sinks into her seat. “Yeah, well. It was all very spur of the moment.”

Anya clunks about outside and you wait a moment before picking up your head from the glass. You see the back of Clarke’s head, hair spread out in waves over her shoulders as she plays with the phone in her lap. “Are you okay, Clarke?”

She stops moving and then starts back up again. “I’m fine.”

Anya comes back a few minutes later with snacks from the general store. She reaches back to give you a lemon flavored vitamin water which you take with thanks, and the first thing you do is press it to the side of your neck. The chill it sends down your spine, still ice cold from the cooler, is wholly welcome compared to the heat settled under your skin.

Clarke gets a bag of candy, but she doesn’t open it. She puts it aside somewhere and goes back to fiddling. In this heat, it’ll be blob of melted chocolate before you even make it back to the highway.

“Clarke,” Anya says, pulling the car up to the edge of the parking lot and looking both ways. The response must take a second too long because it’s only when she repeats herself that Clarke turns to her. “Directions please.”

“It's a one way, Anya.”

“For now,” Anya shoots back. She looks both ways again and then pulls the car out onto the road.  “At least just get me back to the highway.”

You come to the end of the one-way and Clarke points to the right after spending a second too long staring at her phone. “That way,” she says and Anya follows. You settle back against the seat and pretend to find interest in things you can’t see.

 

* * *

 

“Look,” Anya says and you actually try before you realize you can’t. Your mouth sets into this annoyed slant when all you can see out the window is blotches of dusty yellows and tans. As a result, it takes a second for the slightly antagonistic tone to Anya’s voice to sink in. “Clarke, you never told us you were into automotive reconstruction.”

The occupant in the passenger seat, however, is less than pleased. “I said I was sorry.”

“That doesn’t make us not lost.”

“Anya,” you start, but she shoots you a glance.

“She got us into this mess; she can get us out.”

“Fuck off, Anya.”

“All I’m asking is that you at least try to fix it.”

Something splits the air right then, and even in your semi-blind state, there’s nothing quite like the shift in Clarke’s temper. She swirls in her seat, eyes no doubt a storm. “ _I’m trying,_ ” she snaps, voice cracking and Anya flinches minutely in her seat at the emotion in it, more than a little stunned.

You’re not sure what to do, but not doing anything isn't an option. “The signal is shit out here,” you cut in, taking advantage of the silence, and Clarke turns back to the window wiping her eyes.

Anya drums her fingers against the wheel. “So then what do you suggest, hm?” she says after a moment, glancing back at you before turning ahead to watch the road. “The way we’re going, we won’t make it out of New Mexico until we’re dead.”

Your brows furrow, Clarke uncharacteristically silent in the passenger seat. “I don’t really see the problem? It’s not a race.”

“You can’t see a lot of things right now,” Anya mutters under her breath, a teasing little jab, and you can practically feel your eyes roll into the back of your head. The silence settles again, the wind curling into the car through the open windows and you’re sure you’ve somehow managed to circumvent the third world war from the backseat. An accomplishment if there ever was one, but there’s an inkling in your gut telling you it’s far from over.

The feeling curdles until it’s undeniable, as much of a presence as the heat that refuses to fade. By now all of your phones are near dead and the broken cigarette lighter means there’s little keeping the three of you from wandering back into construction and getting more lost than you already were. So you retreat to pick at your wounds at the first motel you find.

Clarke’s the first to move when the car stops, gathering the few things she has in the front seat into her arms (everything besides the chocolate you’re sure) and fumbles with the handle of the door.

“Clarke--” Anya starts, watching, and the helplessness in her voice sounds unusual on her tongue.

“Don’t,” Clarke growls, kicking the door open wider with her foot. She’s up and out in a matter of seconds, keycard already in hand and the door shutting loudly behind her.

“You should say you’re sorry,” you mutter from the backseat.

“For what?” Anya growls back as she unbuckles her seatbelt and it whooshes back into place. You wish the two of them could see how similar they are sometimes.

“Your behavior.”

Her hands come up to cover her face. “I just--” She exhales loudly, the sound muffled into her palms. “She’s been miserable and I hate seeing her like this.”

“Clarke deals with things at her own pace, you know that.” You look at your hands. Sometimes it still feels like they’re separate from you.  “Forcing her just makes it worse.”

“She’d let it eat her whole, too,” Anya says softly. You don’t say anything back.

The both of you pile into the room one right after the other, strength in numbers, setting things down by the small table and it's quaint and small as any motel room can be.  There is a certain relief when you both find the bathroom door closed though, the sound of rushing water loud through the thin walls.

Anya watches you and out of the corner of your eye you watch her back as you go about fishing through the bags for your glasses by feel alone. More often than not she leaves the emotional support up to you. You know it's not because she doesn’t want to, but she seems to believe your strengths far outweigh her own. All you want to tell her is to try.

But instead you decide to do things her way for once and give her a little shove. 

She stumbles over to the door, your hand firm on her lower back, and you can feel her try to push back against you.

Anya had never been one to dawdle, and only in the face of Clarke have you seen her crumble. It starts as cracks in her neck once she finally rights herself in front of the bathroom door, inches to her fingers and toes. She shoots you a glare you shrug off and her shoulders stiffen, your attention returning to the bags and the search for your glasses.

It takes a moment, but you find them in the side-pocket of Clarke’s little canvas bag the second Anya knocks on the bathroom door. You don’t hear a response, just another rap of knuckles against the hardwood and then Anya’s tentative, “Clarke?”

The water has stopped, but you can hear the ripples of the bath and you know Clarke can hear her too. Anya stands stalwart by the door, and if there was one person who could give Clarke a run for her money in stubbornness, Anya would be it.

Clarke seems to realize that too. “What?” she says, voice wafting through the closed door. It’s half gurgled, water bubbling, but the relief you see trickle through Anya’s posture means that something’s starting to give.

“Can I come in?”

“No.”

(Then again it was never that easy)

Anya exhales loudly, her neck cracking. “I have to pee.”

There’s silence again and it lasts. You feel it in your bones and for Anya you know it must be nothing less than torture. But she waits, hands tense by her side, until it pays off.

“The door’s not locked,” comes Clarke’s soft admittance and you’re almost too far from the door to hear it. It’s neither an affirmative or a negative, but that’s to be expected. Clarke doesn’t know how to ask for help sometimes. She leaves you hints though, and you hold on for all that it’s worth.

“May I come in?” Anya asks again, softer this time.

“Okay,” Clarke says and it trickles in. It’s all that Anya needs though, and after one last look at you, she turns the handle and disappears inside.

You wait a moment, listening, and then grab one of the take-out menus left on the nightstand and sift through the options with mild interest. There’s a pizza joint not far away that delivers. Or a chinese take-out a short distance down the road. You’re not in the position to make executive food decisions without Clarke and Anya, so you set it down and begin to unpack.

You’re almost done when a loud splash causes you stop and turn towards the bathroom. The lack of profanity that follows leaves you oddly hopeful and you carefully set down Clarke’s camera on the small table before making your way over to the door. It’s left ajar only slightly, and you lean into it with your shoulder unsure what to expect.

What you find is Anya haphazardly submerged behind Clarke in the bathtub, t-shirt and shorts soaked through and the top half of her head comically dry. She doesn’t look mad or even particularly bothered, but when she spots you in the door she rolls her eyes. Clarke follows the line of her sight and finds you, cheeks rosy from the bath and blonde hair waterlogged and sticking to her damp skin.

“Did she say sorry?” you ask, leaning against the doorframe. Anya lowers her head until her mouth and nose are underwater, bubbles rising to the surface.

“She did,” Clarke says, a tad bit distracted, fingers no doubt fiddling with Anya’s under the water.

“We mean it, you know,” you say, pulling yourself up from your slouch against the door.

“I’m not--” Clarke starts, brows furrowing and a frown tugging her lips. “I’m just a little lost right now. That’s all.”

“Doesn’t mean you have to be lost alone.”

“I know.”

You shift on your feet. “Is there room for one more?”

Clarke looks away, considering the space, the water still steaming and your glasses fogging. There’s no room, but she turns back to you and nods. “Always.”

You kick off your shoes and Anya rights herself, scooting a bit to the side, making space so that you can slip into the water without kneeing someone in the face. It’s anything but a graceful, more of a calculated fall that leaves you a little disorientated and your glasses askew on your nose. You regret not taking off your clothes, but what’s done is done.

Clarke is soft against you, skin warm when you press your cheek against hers, dipping for a brief kiss. When you pull back, you struggle valiantly with the t-shirt soaked and clinging to your skin before Clarke takes pity on you. She slips the glasses carefully off your face, placing them out of harm’s way before her fingers find the hem of your shirt and tugs. You raise your arms so she can pull it over your head, fingers trailing and the fabric peeling from your skin.

It ends up somewhere beyond the tub and you forget all about it. 

 

* * *

 

The bath has long since gone cold by the time the three of you manage to clamber out of the tub, fingers all pruny. You change into each other’s dry clothes, whatever your hands find first in the shared clothing duffle bag and it results in a patchwork of old t-shirts and worn, comfy shorts. There’s nothing quite like it you’re sure.

The three of you order everything but pizza from the joint down the road (some messy meatball subs and chicken wings that are to die for). Clarke eats in silence but she eats with you, her back pressed against the headboard and paper plate balanced on her knees, watching the television with default interest.

You and Anya play a round of rummy at the small table with a deck of cards you found in the nightstand drawer, and you put up a fight until Anya manages to go out with a three-of-a-kind and you stare dejectedly at the gathered aces and kings in your hands.

“I’ll let you win next time,” she says, grinning as she gathers the cards, but you’ve heard that one before. It’s dark outside now and the lamp by the bedside emits swaths of golden yellow. Soft, and you can’t help but glance at Clarke dozing on the bed.

Anya seems to know before you do, packing the cards away in the little cardboard box with a small smile as you stand from your chair. You clamber in behind her and you feel her shift awake against you, your arm circling her waist, fingers slipping under her shirt.

“Who won?” she asks, voice on the edge of sleep

“I did.”

Anya scoffs somewhere behind you. “Shut up,” she mumbles, paper bags crinkling as she goes about tidying the mess you all made. You grin against Clarke’s shoulder, thumb rubbing back and forth over her stomach.

You rest your eyes, content in the peace this closeness brings, and you know it can only get better the moment the bed dips and Anya crawls onto the mattress, plopping down in front of Clarke. You hear Anya laugh, this low rumbly caught in her throat kind of thing, and Clarke has always been weak to it. She lets out these half sleepy giggles that you can feel under your fingertips and you like the sound. Your palm flattens against her skin, hand inching towards the tickle spot just below her ribs.

She swats your hand and Anya kisses her cheek and quite honestly Clarke doesn’t stand a chance.


End file.
